Bloody Christmas
by duvalia
Summary: The holiday season doesn't start off well for the 141, but soon the whole base will be bathed in red.


**A/N:** A Christmas -ish oneshot (with closer ties to Halloween) that isn't quite sure what it wants to be as a story. Nevertheless my gift to all who choose to read this random and demented _thing_. If you don't enjoy the present, then that's just too bad. *laughs*

**Warning: **Language, violence, OOC?

* * *

Soap tapped his pencil against the wooden surface his desk, not quite sure how to word the report that currently sat in front of him. To say the last op he'd led had been _botched_ was putting things lightly; it was more like a complete and total fuck-up. The only thing good about what _had_ happened was what _didn't_ happen. MacTavish hadn't lost a single man.

But being alive was one thing.

Being all there… _mentally_, _physically_, was another entirely.

MacTavish welcomed the knock at his door, but with a quick glance and a realization of who his visitor was, Soap decided he'd continue to focus on his report. He probably should've been typing it, but he preferred pencils over pens and even more so over his computer, which nevertheless had a blank document opened, the blinking black line practically mocking him. Pens ran out of ink and computers crashed. They were… _unreliable._

His visitor knocked again and Soap allowed himself to maintain eye contact. "A word, MacTavish?"

"Why are you still here, Ghost?" Despite himself, Soap couldn't stop the bitterness from entering his voice.

"You know I have no reason to go back," Ghost muttered, his voice lacking any sort of emotion.

"And you have no reason to stay."

With the holidays approaching, all members of the task force had been allowed to return home though a tiny few had chosen to stay having no one left to return to. Soap knew it wasn't consideration on Shepherd's part but rather a reflection of his disappointment in his _beloved _One Four One. The general didn't even want to _see_ them after their fuck-up.

"It wasn't my fucking fault, _Captain_."

MacTavish ignored the comment, instead choosing to take their conversation elsewhere. "How's Roach?"

"Already sleeping like a fucking baby in our room."

Soap gritted his teeth at the venom in his subordinate's voice. "What's got you all upset, _Lieutenant_?" Soap demanded as he stood, using his slight height advantage to push Riley's buttons. The lieutenant didn't like being pushed around, much like Soap himself, but unlike the captain he didn't have the luxury of rank.

"Just wondering why that fucking cocksucker _Army _boy gets off with a mere wrist slapping. _Sir,_" Ghost sneered.

MacTavish grabbed Riley by the neck and slammed him hard against the wall, his fingers digging into the man's skin threatening to leave bruises. He savored his power over his lieutenant as Ghost grunted when his head bounced off the plaster and continually gasped for air as he struggled to breathe. "Don't you _dare _place the blame on him," Soap growled.

Despite the hand wrapped around his throat cutting off his air Ghost glared back at MacTavish, the skeletal grin of his mask a strange contrast to the blatant hostility in his eyes.

John jerked backward, but his movements proved too slow and a fist connected with the side of his face causing a pain to explode as he felt a bone shatter. He stumbled back against his desk releasing his hold on the lieutenant.

Ghost seethed, his words and accusations broken as he struggled through his coughing. "Don't _blame _him_?_ Why? Because we're a fucking _team_?" Ghost let out an unrestrained laugh and the sound of it sent a cold shiver down John's spine. His voice leveled and his blue eyes looked icier than usual. "But you're free to blame _me_, right?

"I never said I blamed you," John murmured, straightening to look his subordinate in the eye despite the pain still throbbing in his cheek.

"I'm not stupid, MacTavish."

"I _trust _you, Riley."

"Well maybe that trust is misplaced," the lieutenant replied leaving John to finish his report.

MacTavish let Riley go, watching as his imposing figure was lost to the darkened hallway. If he didn't stop their argument now he knew he'd end up saying something he'd barely been able to hold back. They'd both been out of line, but bringing up Riley's murdered family and throwing it in his face would have been one step too far.

The lieutenant's background was no secret to anyone on the task force. Soap was more than familiar with the media tales of how a former member of the British SAS had killed his entire family during the holidays. It eventually came out that Ghost was completely innocent and the whole thing had been a carefully crafted plan against him, but John couldn't help but wonder if maybe sometimes Ghost wasn't always completely there.

The Scot sat back at his desk gently pressing one hand to his cheek. The pain had mostly subsided meaning that despite the shattering feeling he'd experienced earlier, Ghost hadn't actually broken anything when his fist connected.

He really should have apologized, but there was nothing John hated more than admitting he was wrong. Apologies were statements to the world that he'd been wrong and in his line of work mistakes got people killed, _his _men killed. Mistakes were the reasons why he had fucked everything up.

Several hours passed between his argument with Ghost and putting the last period at the end of his report. He was tired, his muscles stiff from being hunched over his desk for so long. Soap couldn't even bring himself to reread his work and relive the actions he'd captured with the written word. Unsatisfied, but willing to settle with what he had, MacTavish dusted off the last bits of eraser shavings from his desk and placed his report in a manila folder to present to Shepherd.

MacTavish walked down the hallway noting that the walls were as bland as ever, no evidence that the holiday season was already upon them. Almost all of the doors that lined the hallway were open revealing empty drawers and made beds, the former occupants elsewhere for the festive holiday. One door remained shut and Soap paused in front of it, debating whether or not to knock or continue his journey to Shepherd's office.

Ghost shared the room with Roach and judging from the lack of sounds within, the two men were probably sleeping. Nevertheless, Soap knocked before letting himself inside despite the lack of response. Upon entering he noted that the lieutenant's bed was empty though his trunk still remained at the foot of the bed. With all the vacated rooms and Ghost's current attitude, Soap wouldn't have been surprised if Riley had decided to sleep elsewhere for the night.

The next thing to catch Soap's attention was the unmistakable scent of_ blood_.

Immediately MacTavish discarded his report and pulled his knife from its sheath, disappointed in himself for not having brought along his sidearm. "Roach?" he called out, suddenly desperate for a response. He approached the bed, his knife held out in front of him as he slowly pulled down the bed sheet from around its occupant.

Soap sucked in his breath as the body was revealed to him. He wanted to say it was the young sergeant, but the thing lying on the bed was a lifeless _body_. Roach's face had been smashed in to the point of being unrecognizable, his eyes appearing to have popped from someone digging a thumb into each of his eye sockets. MacTavish couldn't even pick out Gary's dark brown hair as it was so matted with blood.

Before John could even begin to think, the lights shut off leaving him with what little natural light shone through the windows. The fucking emergency lights that lined the hallway were off as well. MacTavish would've written it all off as some Christmas prank if his fucking sergeant hadn't just been beaten to death in his sleep.

Pushing his emotions aside, Soap searched the drawers knowing that both Ghost and Roach had to have kept some sort of gun with them. _Nothing_. Not even Sanderson's knife. Riley probably had his on him.

Now… where the hell _was _Ghost?

The lieutenant's bed was empty and didn't appeared to have been used at all since the man had fixed it this morning. Soap admitted that Riley wasn't the most stable of people, but… He glanced back at the bed where Roach's corpse lay. No. John trusted Simon; he almost hated himself for thinking Ghost would do such a thing.

He pulled the sheet back over Roach's face, promising to give the man a proper burial once his killer had been caught. The sentiment sounded so cliché in his head.

"Fuck you G-"

Soap turned toward the opened door but the curse was cut short by a scream then the sick wet sound of a blade digging into flesh. There was a squishy thud, the sound of receding footsteps then all was quiet once again.

He ventured into the hallway, less confident than he would've been with a gun in his hands, but still fully aware of his own capabilities without one. With the windows that lined the hallway, it was easy to see that he was alone, but he knew he'd soon stumble across something he would rather not see.

As he turned the corner he saw Jester's body slumped against a wall, the top half of his head threatening to detach from the rest of his body. Someone had traced his knife along the scars of Jester's Glasgow smile, a disfigurement that had earned the man his call sign, and extended the cuts so they finally reached his ears.

MacTavish clenched his teeth together, too many emotions running through him for him to think straight. Jester had cursed someone before his death. Gator? …Ghost? John once again pushed any speculation from his mind to concentrate on the task before him. He spotted Jester's holster pulling the dead man's M9 from it. He'd taken and picked up weapons from dead bodies all the time, but rarely was it ever from one of his men. MacTavish ran his hand down Jester's face, shutting the man's eyes as he mumbled something under his breath.

Standing once more, John checked to make sure the M9 was fully loaded and ready to kill whatever bastard was wandering the base. The night was silent not even a gentle blow of the wind to distract him as he heard a crash from in the direction of the mess hall. Soap ran as hard as he could, any second he wasted closer to the death of another one of his men.

MacTavish froze but quickly trained his gun on the head of the man with the knife. He was dressed in woodland camouflage pinning another man beneath him with his body weight, one hand holding down the wrists of his captive above his head, the other twirling the knife playfully.

"Thought I was dead?" The man smirked. "That would have to be Klepto. Don't you love uniformity?" Not bothering to wait for an answer he licked at his bottom lip tasting the blood that lingered there. Layers of blood covered his face, the dark red of dried blood already flaking off while a thick and almost black liquid slowly dripped down his face, drop after drop landing onto Ghost, who struggled weakly beneath him. "You didn't eat with us," the man continued.

"What's the point of this, Roach?" John demanded, his finger already positioned on the trigger.

The sergeant held up a bottle, the sound of the pills clacking around inside as the sergeant shook the container. "Even _we _put down our guard when we think we're safe." He tossed the small container over and Soap caught it, turning it in his hands to examine the label. The contents were by no means lethal or even harmful, mere sleeping pills, but that didn't make them any less dangerous in the hands of someone with an agenda. And the sergeant sure as hell had an agenda he was keeping to.

"It's not Riley's fault!"

Roach smiled at him, handling his knife with a practiced expertise before stabbing it into Riley's side. The lieutenant screamed as the blade entered his body, his blood beginning to flow freely once Roach extracted the weapon. The blood pooled around them, the red color nicely complimenting the Army green of Gary's outfit.

"_Merry Christmas_, MacTavish."

* * *

**A/N: **The End. If you have a question I probably don't have the answer. But may your holiday season be better than Soap's.


End file.
